You marry her daughter in eleven weeks. The venue is hers. The money is hers. The guest list is hers. She has been kind to you since the day you were introduced. Genuinely, usefully kind, in a way nobody in your own family has ever managed. Lately you have started to notice that every kind thing she has done put you somewhere. The seat at that dinner. The favour at four hours notice. The weekend where you had to choose. You passed all of them. You did not know you were sitting any of them. There is one left.